


The hunt

by skriftlig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skriftlig/pseuds/skriftlig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ministry is hunting down werewolves and Harry knows he has to keep hidden. But someone else is hunting him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for starduchess for the Halloween fest at hd_owlpost.

A thin layer of mist settles on his face in the cool air. It's not pleasant, but Harry relishes the feel of it on his skin while he can. The night is pretty quiet, and he can hear just a low hum of traffic in the distance as he steps slowly through the building site, double checking that it is empty. He leans against one of the large, yellow containers, watching a car pull out of the supermarket car park nearby. Its headlights flash in his direction for a moment, before the car turns and he is left in darkness once again. Harry snorts softly when he sees the blue and yellow painted squares on side of the Muggle police car.

He chooses a container in the middle of the site and fumbles slightly in his cloak for the wand. He's not stupid enough to use his own – they'd be tracing that – but this one feels reassuring in his hand. It's a reminder of the choice he made.

Harry undoes the lock easily and climbs inside the container. He doesn't bother with a Lumos; the faint light from outside is enough for the small preparations that have become his ritual every time he does this. He pulls the roll of Muggle sellotape from his pocket before removing his clothes and dumping them outside, shoving them roughly in the small space between the container and the ground. He walks back inside, swinging the heavy door shut behind him with an echoing clack, and blinks in the total darkness. He's careful to point his wand as close as possible to the spot where the lock was as he casts a locking charm. Slowly, he takes a few steps toward the corner of the container, feeling for where the door meets the wall. When he's there, he braces his back against the door, planting his feet against the wall, and shimmies up the inside of the container. He pulls off his glasses and fixes them to the ceiling with the sellotape. He repeats the process with the wand, before dropping carefully back to the floor. He crawls to the middle of the container, satisfied he's taken every precaution he can.

All that's left to do is wait.

 

\+ + +

 

Draco paces back and forth in front of the large map on his office wall. There are pins in the places where signs of werewolf activity have been found – the black pins mark activity during a full moon, blue pins mark the most recent full moon, and the red pins, the ones charmed to reveal their true colour only to Draco, well they mark activity that might be him.

Draco glances back at the map, frowning. The red pins are dotted about the country wildly, as if Draco has just stood at the back of the room and hurled a bunch of pins at the opposite wall. Which, he admits, he might as well have done for all the insight this map gives him. A flapping bit of parchment by his head reminds him there's a team meeting in 5 minutes and he straightens his shirt and heads out of his office.

Natasha, head of the Werewolf Location and Capture Division, drones on about the latest estimates of werewolf numbers. Draco zones out; he knows the official Ministry figures are nothing but guesses – no-one has any idea how many people were bitten in the years after the second wizarding war. She goes on about more sightings from the team and Draco wonders how many more pins are sticking in to his map right now. Natasha dismisses her team, her gaze falling on Draco when she tells them to go home and rest. He knows what she's thinking – what they're all thinking – but Draco is determined. Has been since he joined this sodding place. Has been since it happened.

When he's back in his office, there are more pins on his map. He looks at them wearily, so it takes him a full five minutes before he spots the new pins: a little cluster of blue and red dots just outside of Bristol. Draco is ripping the map off the wall and turning to Apparate before he can let out a breath.

He lands in a dark, deserted lane, and whispers a quick modified Point Me to get to the location of the first pin. He checks out the field; there's not much in it except an old wooden stable, but he doesn't miss the scratches along the beams or the gnarled stable door. He glances at the map again, wishing he'd thought to grab his cloak, and turns on the spot, heading for the location of the next pin.

Before he opens his eyes, he can feel it. Ollivander once told Draco that although a wand may change allegiance, the wizard who used to wield it will always recognise its magic. And Draco had that wand all through school, and for the few years that followed, and its magic jumps over his skin. He follows the lingering magic in the air through a maze of large Muggle containers. He ends up in front of one that looks no different than the others, but he notices marks in the mud leading up to the large door.

He points his wand at the door and takes a deep breath.

 

\+ + +

 

The wolf hurls itself at the side of the room again. And again its front legs and chest slam into the solid metal and it is thrown backwards. It scrabbles back to its feet, claws slipping and sliding on the smooth floor. It has just prepared itself for another attempt when it hears sounds outside. Something is approaching and the wolf slides immediately into attack mode; it crouches facing the sounds, hackles raised and teeth bared. It longs to bite; it has been kept hidden and confined for too long. The sounds stop nearby, and there's silence. Until the side of the room falls away.

The world outside this room crashes onto the wolf. Cool air, heavy with moisture, swirls into the room, along with a myriad of smells and sounds: overly processed food in a large building nearby, chemicals spilt on the ground, animals from a distant farm. But the wolf isn't concerned with any of these things. All of its attention is on the human standing in front of it.

The human's musky scent is so strong, overpowering everything from outside, it leaves the wolf momentarily dazed. It expects to launch itself at the human, but its muscles don't release its body, just hold it fixed in a permanent crouching position. And, just as the human has a scent that confuses the wolf, it is behaving in an unfamiliar way. The human should be running away, or performing some other defensive tactic, but the wolf watches, transfixed, as the figure steps inside the room and approaches.

It can hear the thudding heart of the human, smell the increasing sweat on the human's body. It's so strong, the wolf can almost taste it. It could, if it wanted to; it could pin this human down and lick his body, but something stops it. The wolf doesn't want the human to run like a deer or bear. Slowly, as the wolf stands there, tensed and strained, hitherto unknown instincts creep over it. Want. Protect. Need.

The human reaches out with a fragile, frail arm, which would take the wolf less than a second to bite through, and grazes the fur above the wolf's eye. It is the briefest of touches – the wolf would probably have never noticed it ordinarily – but it feels good.

It needs to touch the human again. Wants to have every bit this human's skin against its fur. The wolf lunges, knocking the human over and races to land on top of it. It retains enough awareness not to crush the human or bite it too hard, but it plays as though the human were a pup. Waves of contentment ride through its body and its mind is strangely calm. It wriggles on its stomach to rub its head over the human, pawing when the human stops stroking it. Eventually, it lays its head on the human and settles into sleep.

The wolf wakes some time later, sensing the change coming. Somewhere, deep below all the unusual experiences of tonight, it knows that the change is painful. It prepares for the agony of the shrinking bones and muscles, but the human's fingers still rest on it's chest and they sooth its shifting body. The wolf buries its head into the warm body beneath it, letting its body rock and shudder as the night draws to a close.

 

\+ + +

 

Draco watches as Potter stirs in his sleep. He's been sitting against the container wall since he extracted himself from Potter's surprisingly strong grip, only venturing outside briefly to get Potter's cloak to wrap around him. Despite waiting hours for Potter to wake, he still hasn't come up with a single thing to say when he does. Suddenly, he runs out of time, because Potter sits up so rapidly that Draco almost thinks someone cast a Body-Lock Jinx on him. The cloak flaps open and Draco gets a glimpse of scarred skin stretched over a firm chest and stomach before he averts his gaze.

“Glasses,” Potter croaks.

Draco frowns at him, then realises Potter isn't even looking in his direction. Potter clears his throat.

“I need my glasses.”

It is completely ridiculous that a wizard, or werewolf, as powerful as Potter still relies on two tiny pieces of glass to function, but Draco doubts that now is the moment to point this out. Potter apparently mislaid his glasses whilst in werewolf form last night and Draco wonders how he really hoped to see them again.

Potter sits back on his knees, hands flat against his thighs, still not looking at Draco. “Summon them.”

Draco pulls out his own wand and does as he's told. There's a ripping noise and then Potter's round glasses are in his palm. He slides them across the floor to Potter, who places them carefully back on his nose, then goes back to resting on his knees. He's facing a bit away from Draco, so only one bare leg and arm are visible now, and Draco wishes he could see Potter's face.

Draco has worked and waited for years for this moment. But now he wonders why he thought it would be any different than the other momentous occasions in his life; the Astronomy Tower, the Dark Lord at The Manor, the Room of Requirement, all prime examples of Draco's absolute cowardice. He desperately tries to think of something to say, but fails.

He should thank Potter, he knows. He wants to tell him that he's thought about him ever since the day that Potter – wizarding hero and tipped to become the youngest ever Head Auror – took a werewolf bite intended for Draco. And even before that. But as he looks at Potter, drawing ragged breaths on the cold floor wearing only a cloak, he knows this is not what Potter needs to hear.

Potter looks up, finally. His glasses don't hide his startling green eyes, or the creases in his skin that spread out from their corners. But his gaze never reaches Draco's face; instead it travels slowly over his body, pausing at various places where Draco realises his clothing is torn. He quickly tries to repair the damage, but he's never been very good with those sorts of spells, and, although he manages to stitch the fabric together in most places, the shirt still hangs at a funny angle.

“Sorry about that,” Potter says. There's a pause and Draco wonders if Potter even remembers how his clothes got into this state. “Uh, I think I, I mean the wolf part of me, likes you.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that impression, what with you rubbing yourself all over me.”

Draco feels a shiver of delight snake up his spine at Potter's blush. He remembers, then. But Potter's next words cut through his momentary satisfaction.

“Well, now you've found me,” Potter spits the words, cold and hard. “What are you waiting for? You probably have a medal to collect when you hand me over.”

Draco's heart starts to pound. No, no, no! Potter has got this all wrong – he's not here to catch him or lock him up, or do any of the other Recommended Actions against Werewolves that The Ministry published in The Prophet. Potter is turning his body away again and Draco is so desperate that he accidentally blurts out the truth.

“I want to save you. Like you saved me.”

Potter doesn't move; he doesn't speak.

“ _Please?_ ”

Even though each step terrifies him, Draco walks over to Potter. Potter doesn't react, so Draco walks right in front of him and extends his hand. He's sure Potter will refuse, or at least ask a hundred questions that Draco doesn't have answers for, but then Potter's reaching out, rough fingers firmly wrapping around Draco's own. His expression is wary as he slowly gets to his feet, but his eyes are fixed on Draco.

Draco pictures The Manor as he prepares to Apparate them away. He wants to get Potter out of here, somewhere safe. Once they're there, they'll have time to figure the rest out. He smiles as he remembers Potter's words. The wolf part of me likes you. Suddenly Draco is determined to get the rest of Potter to agree with the wolf part.


End file.
